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With a pudgy forefinger he stripped his purple brow of a row of glistening sweat-drops. "I'll have Zeelah fix up a bed where this glorious breeze will play on you. Mr. Anthony, that trade-wind blows just like that all the time never dies down it's the only thing that makes life bearable here that and the whiskey. Have another highball?" "No, I thank you."
The speaker indicated a broken-backed rocker encumbered with damp clothes, newspapers, and books. "Just dump that rubbish on the floor; it don't matter where." Then he piped at the top of his thin, little voice, "Zeelah! Hey, Zeelah! Bring some more ice."
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